Sacrifice Reclaimed
by CovertCobalt
Summary: A vignette featuring a villain from my D&D home campaign. Vorcume Zosunde, a priest to the Pentatheon, betrays his order for the good of his faith. Sometimes, change is not for the better. A single warrior monk sets into motion a holy heist that will bring the church back its roots. And he'll nourish those roots with blood.


" _Holy Heist_ "

Vorcume did not particularly enjoy robbing a temple to his own gods, but he had long ago learned how to aside his personal feelings in the pursuit of what was right. In this case, that pursuit involved breaking into one of the most remote bastions of the Pentatheonic faith on the continent without any sort of backup. This at least, brought him some small echo of joy; he did still enjoy a challenge, after all.

The warrior-monk stood at the base of a steep cliff, the temple's lights barely visible far above. Behind him, the Pale Lake reflected silvery starlight; there were no clouds tonight, and for that he thanked Melora. Although the night was cool, he had no fire; the light and smoke could attract undue attention. Instead, he had prayed to Bahamut, Lord of Justice, to fill his veins with cleansing (and warming) silver fire. Even now, he felt the platinum tongues of flame licking at his scars from the inside, aching to be released.

He obliged them.

With a sudden, explosive leap, Vorcume shot fifteen feet into the air and wedged his hands into natural gaps in the rock. His scars blazed with white light, revealing the long climb ahead. He grunted in pleasure at the physical exertion—a form of penance, perhaps—and began the arduous journey upwards. Half an hour later, he pulled himself to his feet at the cliff's peak.

Before him stood a fortress disguised as a temple. Thick, buttressed walls of stone jutted upwards another fifty feet above his head. Granite gargoyles—inanimate, as far as he knew—decorated the tops at regular intervals, their snarling faces protecting the priests within from the evils of the outside world. Most striking was the strange bridge-like structure that jutted out over the cliff's edge, seeming to hover perilously over the surface of the lake. Some called it Melora's Embrace; Vorcume imagined few priests tested whether she really protected those who jumped from its edge.

However, the monk had little time for such idle consideration. As Bahamut's light faded, he began to offer a prayer to Avandra instead, invoking her power over the free-flowing winds. He murmured thanks to the Goddess of Change as his scars flared green and gravity's tyrannical hold over his body grew feeble. Then he sprinted toward the temple walls.

Then, he sprinted up them.

His legs burned from the effort. Seconds before reaching the wall's top, he felt the power fade, and leapt high into the air for the final stretch. He landed clumsily atop the wall, barely preventing a serious fall by tucking into a roll. Another murmured word of thanks and he resumed his sprint, moving along the side of the wall, toward the Northern edge.

Now, he could see the myriad structured within the compound. There, a small field of shallots and peas, carefully tended. Further in, a copse of gnarled trees surrounding a marble mountain, its surface decorated with carvings of the Pentatheon. He saw the temple's refectory, its side decorated with a beautiful tiled mosaic of Melora.

Finally, without breaking stride, he allowed himself to admire the temple itself. It was a massive, five-sided building, capped with a crenulated bell tower. Each of its five sides had its own door, each of which bore an image of one of the Pentatheon. Noble Bahamut, depicted as a mighty platinum dragon, decorated the door closest to him.

 _Almost there, Lord,_ Vorcume prayed, _soon your will shall be made manifest_.

As he turned a corner atop the wall, he nearly ran headlong into one of the temple's priests: A longhaired youth dressed in an acolyte's robes. Vorcume estimated him as having reached manhood only a few seasons ago, judging by his sparse beard and thin shoulders. The young priest dropped his lantern in surprise and let out a small yelp.

"Wh-Who are you? How did y-you get here," the boy asked in a reedy voice.

Vorcume sighed, "It brings me no pleasure to do this, brother. May the Raven Queen's wings guide you."

Then, he seized the boy and flung him from the wall. The boy could not even muster a scream in response; his surprised gasp was the last sound he made. Second-to-last, if you counted the muffled thud of his collision with the cliff below.

Vorcume paused to say a quick prayer to the Raven Queen to send the boy's soul on its way.

He landed softly on the well-tended grass within the walls silently, dispersing his weight with a graceful shoulder roll. He approached the temple itself, entering through the door bearing the image of a stern, powerful woman: Erathis, goddess of civilization. He pushed the door open just wide enough to slip through, then disappeared inside.

Before he'd crossed the halfway mark toward the dais at the building's center, a woman's voice called out from the shadows.

"It seems I read the signs well, Brother Zosunde," she rasped, "I was almost worried the Fatespinner misled me."

Vorcume inclined his head in the direction of the voice, "Sister, may the five blessings be upon you this night."

She responded in kind and then emerged from the shadows. In the pale moonlight streaming through the windows above, she seemed almost ethereal. Her white hair drifted lazily in a nonexistent breeze, while her ashen robes clung to her like woven shadow. She gripped a bone-white sickle in her hand with the practiced carelessness of a master.

Vorcume tensed his body in response; this woman was dangerous. Death hung about her like a miasma.

"You still have the ability to choose otherwise, Brother," she said, "Even the Lady of Destiny cannot control mortal free will."

"To choose otherwise would be a greater betrayal than continuing in my mission, Sister," Vorcume responded, his voice steady and clear, "I will not betray the Pentatheon in word nor in deed."

"So be it."

The woman twisted her sickle in the air and muttered a prayer. Suddenly, she disappeared from view, as the entire chapel filled with inky darkness. Vorcume closed his eyes and began chanting a prayer to Melora. His scars glowed blue as the power of the Goddess of the Wilds filled him.

His senses sharpened. He could smell the musty scent of books on the other side of the room, of incense extinguished hours ago. He could hear the subtle movements of bats far above in the vestry. More importantly, he could hear the woman's nearly silent footsteps. He oriented his bod slightly, preparing himself for her strike.

When she swung her sickle, he avoided its deadly arc, which would have slashed open his neck. He smiled at her sharp intake of breath and lashed out with a closed palm. He connected directly with her right shoulder; her entire arm went limp.

Before the sickle could clatter to the floor, she seized it with her left hand and twirled it expertly. She murmured another prayer and Vorcume felt the incoming blast of cold right before it connected with him. The warrior-monk flew across the room at the head of a howling blizzard, his skin immediately numbed from the frigid air. He struck the chapel's stone wall hard and collapsed to the ground dazed.

"The ancient secrets you've uncovered are impressive, Brother, but they were abandoned for a reason."

Her footfalls advanced with uncanny speed toward him as he staggered to his feet. Before he could prepare himself, she struck a glancing blow to his side. Warm blood stained his simple robes.

"You can channel the Pentatheon's power in yourself, but you cannot affect the outside world. This makes you weak."

Vorcume barely dodged a second slash, aimed for his abdomen. He pressed one hand to his side to staunch the bleeding, while the other drew a knife. His hand blurred as he threw it toward the priestess, but she deflected it with ease, even with her right arm paralyzed. She advanced once more, slower this time.

"The gods' power is not meant to be confined in a mortal vessel, Brother. It is of the world since its creation; it chafes when restrained by any ritual, let alone your archaic runic scars."

She flicked her wrist and incanted a final prayer. Her bone-white sickle became wreathed in black flames. In the darkness, her teeth gleamed the same white as her blade.

"You will not betray the gods in any way tonight, Brother, misguided you may be. Instead, you will die inside their temple, to better serve them in the afterlife. Perhaps the Raven Queen will take pity on you; she has always loved fools most, after all."

In the final seconds before her blade fell, Vorcume intoned a prayer to Erathis. His scars came to life with golden light, which pierced the darkness. When the priestess' blade connected, it broke in two. She stared at the broken remains of her sickle for a single second, but that was all he needed. His leg arced out in a wicked kick; he noted that he shattered at least three of her ribs. Then, an iron-hard fist struck her temple with deadly force. She collapsed to the floor, her shadows purged by the light of his scars.

He did not smile. He bowed his head and spoke a prayer to the Raven Queen. Then, he spoke one to Bahamut, offering penance for his sin. Serving the greater good did not fully excuse the evil of murdering his fellow servitor, after all.

Once he finished his prayers and closed the priestess' black eyes, Vorcume advanced toward the grand Altar. It was a magnificent structure of Cherrywood, obsidian, and platinum, interspersed with five different gems. Each of the Pentatheon's symbols were represented upon its surface and, like fractal patterns, each of those symbols depicted the others. Bahamut's claw was composed of parts of the Raven Queen's avian silhouette. Melora's wave segued seamlessly into Avandra's crested curves.

It was a pity that he'd have to destroy it to reach his goal.

His scars still alight with golden flame, Vorcume reared back and struck the altar with all his might. It cracked down the middle with a terrible crashing sound. Gems and splinters of wood littered the temple floor. He ignored all of that. He only had eyes for what lay within.

Pushing aside the wreckage, Vorcume reached into the center of what was once the most beautiful altar to the Pentatheon on the material plane. He pulled out a rusted dagger with an empty slot in its pommel. Smiling, he tested it against his palm. It sliced through his hand with no effort at all.

The blood spat and hissed as it splashed against the temple's stone floor. As the vapor trailed upwards, it writhed and formed intricate patterns in the air, before dissipating utterly.

Vorcume sheathed the Sacrificial Blade at his side with no further fanfare.

Then, he dropped to his knees and thanked the gods.

They accepted his prayers. He had, after all, offered them their first meal in centuries.


End file.
